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Her native grace and wish to please,
As she his sister were.
I saw conviction in him rise,
Are waste, or spent on one.
And ere he o'er my threshold crossed,
Within a monkish cell;
He'd rouse him from his lethargy;
Was smothering in his breast.
For morbid fear had triumphed long,
The requisites of life.
Here now he saw, what bliss intense,
and mutual love was reaped ; Saw too, how small a competence
Our temperate table heaped.
Nor luxury, nor gorgeousness,
Plenty and elegance.
Like lot was at his option, yet He fancied it would not suffice, (From too fastidious estimate)
For household decencies.
Wrong had he done the maid, whom he
Should even one step remove.
Wrong had he done her,-yea, the
She would have gladly made.
Yet he the young attachment checked,
Her passion unrequited.
It was not so - his inmost soul
O'er him—it holds no more.
The altered notions, as I might,
He went, a blithesome lover!
He in gay dreams the future spanned ;
The maid and he are one.
BY WILLIAM SOTHEBY.
Spirit! who lov'st to live unseen,
By brook, or pathless dell, Where wild woods burst the rocks between, And floods, in streams of silver sheen,
Gush from their flinty cell !
Or where the ivy weaves her woof,
And climbs the crag alone, Haunts the cool grotto, daylight-proof, Where loitering drops that wear the roof
Turn all beneath to stone.
Shield me from summer's blaze of day,
From noon-tide's fiery gale,
Till twilight spreads her veil.
Then guide me where the wandering moon
Rests on Mæcenas' wall,
The peaceful waterfall.
Again they float before my sight,
The bower, the flood, the glade ;
Above the dark cascade.
Down the steep cliff I wind my way
Along the dim retreat,
Where clashing cataracts meet.
And now I leave the rocks below,
And issuing forth from night,
And arch my way with light.
Again the myrtles o'er me breathe,
Fresh flowers my path perfume, Round cliff and cave wild tendrils wreathe, And from the groves that bend beneath,
Low trail their purple bloom.
Thou grove, thou glade of Tivoli,
Dark flood, and rivulet clear, That wind, where'er you wander by, A stream of beauty on the eye,
Of music on the ear:
And thou, that when the wandering moon
Illumed the rocky dell,
Spirit unseen ! farewell!
Farewell! — o'er many a realm I go,
My natal isle to greet,
O'er Freedom's hallowed seat.
Yet there, to thy romantic spot
Shall Fancy oft retire, And hail the bower, the stream, the grot, Where Earth's sole Lord the world forgot,
And Horace smote the lyre.
BY T. CAMPBELL, ESQ.
All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,
Adown the gulf of Time !
As Adam saw her prime!
had a sickly glare, The Earth with age was wan, The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!
In plague and famine some !
To shores where all was dumb!
Yet, prophet like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood,
As if a storm passed by; Saying, we are twins in death, proud Sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
'Tis Mercy bids thee go, For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.
What though beneath thee man put forth His
pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will ;